Requiem of Hate
by Luin
Summary: This takes place at about the same time the Elder resurrects Raziel. The last of the Razielim clan survivors, ignorant of their master's return, descide to make their final stand against Kain.


Requiem of Hate: A Soul Reaver Fan fiction By: Toby Sumrall, AKA Luin  
  
This is my first fan fic, period. I hope you like it, please, all reviews and comments are welcome, BUT if you have anything bad to say, please be polite and do so in a critique manner. Thank you, and enjoy =) PS: I do not own any of the Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver or Legacy of Kain: Blood Omen characters or copyrights, I also do NOT stand to make any profit whatsoever from this story. It is a work or pure fiction, not supported by Crystal Dynamics or any of its affiliates. Also, IF you decide that you MUST copy this story, I kindly ask of you do give me my proper credit, as well as FanFiction.net, which is the only site I am, with my consent, posting this story to.  
  
Chapter 1 A small raven picks at its wings, black as the darkest obsidian, as the twilight only grows deeper around him. The small creature looks up, its glinting, haunting eyes scour the landscape, what little is left of the once-mighty Razielim, brood of the first-born... Sensing nothing more, it goes back to it's prior pruning, oblivious once more the whispers and shadows that haunt this blighted region. The only sound to be heard now is the faint flapping of a once proud banner, white on red, shredded now with the passing of time, caught in the chill breeze that blows from the innermost sections of Nosgoth. The sky is a dark brown on black, the natural nighttime sky blocked out by the belchings of the hidden furnaces, shielding the plateau in the daytime from the lethal solar rays. A small shadow, different from the normal wraiths and shades of the night, darts quickly into a small alcove behind a towering pillar. Moving along in absolute darkness, making not a sound, not even the faint pattering of feet or the rustle of cloth escapes the silent silhouette. Down endless flights of stairs, ancient even to the vampiric brethren, down, down, deeper into the very bowels of the earth, dirt giving way to stone, and stone to solid rock. The sides of this eternal spiral, flawless and smooth, touched not by the death throes of the realm above. The veil of dark slowly gave way to a dim unlight, as the being reached the first cavern is this colossal chain. Stepping into the opening, his face is for the first time since he began his journey, his features stand our in stark contrast in the unnatural illumination. His hair is a startling platinum blue, and his eyes are glinting shards of ice to match, contrasting to his almost delicate facial features. His muscular body, pale in its undead incarnation, is covered by a suit of red armor, of the same color as dried blood. A large white crest is etched in enamel across the breastplate, and a sheath is buckled to the back. From the sheath protrudes a stunning white handle, like a bleached bone, carved and smoothed to fit the hand perfectly. Others look up as he enters, and many kneel as he crosses the hard granite floor, to a makeshift stone table that been set it in a far corner. Glancing over at the wall, he sees the smooth flawlessness scarred by a crudely carved sigil, the same he wears proudly on his armor. He sneers grimly as he passes, smiling inwardly at seeing the symbol once again in their new headquarters. The being settles down onto a cold boulder, and glances at the small group that stands around the "war room", as this cavern had become to be called. Those surrounding the table stand stiffly at attention, and he nods at them to continue. Langon glances nervously at the newcomer, then returns to his statement. "...Now, we have carefully mapped the hunting routs of the fledglings on the west wall here," pointing at a yellowed and worn map, one of the numerous lain out across the flat surface, "and know their habits all too well. They will simply move up to the pass, and have their way with the hunter vermin that come this way. Lemmings..." he mutters under his breath. "Like beasts for the slaughter, they still come this way every day in droves." A small chuckle runs around the table, shared by all but the recent addition. The speaker gives a nervous smile, and returns to his report. "We know that we can move at least to the inner sanctum, here," he points once again, "without even being spotted. Then, it would be a simple matter of defeating the Turelim bodyguards, and gaining access to the Chamber of Pillars...." At this moment, the newcomer leans forward, and places his elbow on the table, lightly resting his chin in his palm. A slight grin plays across his stony features, and he asks in thin voice, as if it was not used to speaking, "And what then?" Many at the table share glances with each other, before finally Langon looks back up. "Well, ah... master Nethos, we were hoping you could tell us what to do about His Eminence..." Those at the table start, and Lagon falls silent, as Nethos slams his red iron gauntlet-covered hand onto the edge of the slab, shattering a corner which falls to the floor in shards, and shattering the silence of the room with a loud crash. Speaking calmly, he whispers through grit teeth, "Do... not... call... him... eminence... He is no longer fit for that title. He is a genocidal blight upon our high race, and a curse upon our empire. Do not grace him with such words of honor..." He leans back, and clenches his fist, letting fall some of the granite dust. "Now... as you were saying?" 


End file.
